


Out of Time

by stripyjamjar



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Blatant timey-wimey shenanigans, Bucky meets Bucky, I wrote this over two years ago wow, M/M, NWY Anthology, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Science Bros, Science Nerd Bucky Barnes, Time Travel, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, not without you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 20:46:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19181080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stripyjamjar/pseuds/stripyjamjar
Summary: “It’s 2016.”Bucky didn’t break his step but he did breathe in rather sharply. “That’sseventy-threeyears away.”Seventy years, Steve thought grimly,since you died.





	Out of Time

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written in 2017 for _Not Without You: A Stucky Anthology_. I'm still very grateful to have been included alongside such talented writers and artists!
> 
> The 'Two Buckys' artwork included in this fic as published here is by the amazing maichan, and you can reblog it from her [here](https://maichan808.tumblr.com/post/185569927117/i-never-did-get-around-to-posting-the-second-piece).

For a split second, Steve didn’t even question it. It was too normal, too familiar, too homely. Just Bucky’s face on the streets of New York.

They stared at each other, open-mouthed.

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky breathed, darting forwards only to stumble to a halt, his eyes wide. “Why’re you… what did you–?” Something akin to betrayal flashed over his face. “S-Steve?” he repeated, shakier this time around, and it was the uncertainty that kicked Steve’s brain into gear. This was the Bucky of his memories, the dirt-streaked sniper of the Howling Commandos who’d marched out of hell and who did not belong here in modern New York.

“Bucky,” he managed, although his voice was little more than a croak. He knew he was staring, but this was… “How – how are you _here?”_

“Dunno.”

Steve recognised that tone; it was the tone Bucky used to adopt just before brawls. Wary, with warning lurking between the syllables like a beast through trees in a fairytale.

But Bucky’s hair was a dishevelled mop and Steve couldn’t focus on anything else. They were both as bad as each other in that respect: Bucky’d hardly blinked since stepping out to accost him.

Carefully, Steve said, “Where were you before?”

“Not sure.” Bucky still looked unconvinced; his eyes never stopped running down the line of Steve’s shoulders. “Got captured. Italy. Went north– Steve, what the hell is going on?” Raw panic filtered through his composure. He shoved one hand into his hair, breathing noisily. “Fuck, are you even–?”

“ _Yes_ , God, yes. Bucky. It’s me,” Steve replied, with all the conviction he could summon, given the utter impossibility of the situation. He held out his hands. “I promise. You’re okay.”

Agonised indecision passed over Bucky’s face before he visibly discarded it and threw himself forward. It wasn’t the most comfortable of hugs – all angles and incoordination, with Bucky clearly at a loss as to where to put his arms – but Steve leaned into it, gripping tight enough to say unspoken, _I’m here, I have you_. His curious gaze snagged on a vicious-looking bruise at Bucky’s temple and he gentled the vice of his arms.

“Jeez, you’re huge,” said Bucky, muffled, into his chest. He pulled away. “This ain’t New York.”

“Uh,” said Steve. He was at somewhat of a loss, and he felt – for the first time – a smidgeon of sympathy for the SHIELD agents who’d had this job with him four years back. “Okay. Buck? This _is_ New York.” He took a breath, trying to work out how to say _you’re in the future_ in a way that won’t send Bucky reeling.

“Is this the future, then?”

Steve choked on air. “What?”

Bucky raised an eyebrow at him. “Okay, so there aren’t any flying cars,” he said, albeit weakly. “But there are giant televisions stuck to the side of _buildings_. Everything’s so…” He gestured helplessly and the movement resonated with Steve like a struck gong. He knew _exactly_ how precarious Bucky was feeling right now. And while seeing a face he recognised would help, the fact that it was attached to the body of Captain America – who, Steve reminded himself, this Bucky had never heard of – wouldn’t exactly provide the most stable of foundations.

Steve didn’t know where to start. So he smiled and nodded. “Yeah,” he said, a flicker of pride brushing against the inside of his ribcage: Bucky’s sharp, always was. Recently it had been difficult to remember that when all he saw was the razor perception of the Winter Soldier. “Okay, smartass,” he continued easily, nudging Bucky’s arm with his elbow, “guess the year.”

They started walking. Bucky kept tripping over uneven paving slabs because he was busy looking up in wonderment, and Steve couldn’t help but grin. The first time he saw what had become of the city, he spent the best part of a month doing exactly the same thing. Now, he led them on a roundabout route towards the Avengers Tower. Firstly, because the sooner he got Bucky inside, the fewer curious looks they’d attract from passers-by. And secondly, because if anyone could give him even a hint of a reason why Bucky Barnes fresh out of 1943 just materialised in the here and now, it was either Tony or Bruce.

Bucky blew out a lungful of air, making his cheeks puff. “Nineteen…” he said slowly, “seventy,” -dragging out the ‘y’ while he considered- “six.” He looked up. “Nineteen seventy-six,” he repeated, forming the year carefully on his tongue. It was an alien year to Steve as much as it was to him: neither of them had lived it; neither of them had experienced the span during which the term meandered through novelty, became second-nature and eventually arrived at nostalgia.

Shaking his head, Steve said, “Not even close.”

“All right, punk, you gonna keep me hanging?”

“It’s 2016.”

Bucky didn’t break his step but he did breathe in rather sharply. “That’s _seventy-three_ years away.”

_Seventy years_ , Steve thought grimly, _since you died_.

He shook himself. “Gotta say, you’re taking this in stride.”

Bucky gave him a funny, sidelong look and didn’t reply, but Steve got it. Italy, he’d said, and then up north. To Kreischberg. See, Steve knew exactly where Bucky’d just come from – probably more thoroughly than Bucky himself did.

* * *

“They still sell Coca-Cola!” exclaimed Bucky.

“Mm-hm.” But Steve didn’t bother following Bucky’s gaze to the illuminated billboard.

* * *

“Okay, Sarge,” said Tony, who to his credit hadn’t breathed a word about Bucky’s future since they arrived, “what’s the last thing you remember?”

Bucky shifted on the balls of his feet and directed an uncomfortable glance towards Steve. Of course, he thought Steve might blow a fuse at the idea of Bucky being captured, let alone strapped down in a cold laboratory to be vivisected. _To be fair, he’s not wrong_ , Steve’s mind remarked, ruefully.

“S’okay, Buck,” he said, trying to keep his smile light. “I know what happened.”

“Right.” Bucky ran a distracted hand through his hair. “Well, there was a big ruckus going on, coupla guys I was with tryin’ to make a break for it. I was just getting brought back from–” He paused to lick his lips. “–from another room, and the whole thing blew straight past me. So of course I stuck out my foot, sent this one fella flying. Big guy, ugly as sin, goes down heavy but comes up again faster’n I was expecting. And he grabs something off one of the tables, chucks it at me. I thought it was a goddamn hand grenade, but it was _blue_ , lit up soon as he touched it. Cracked me right between the eyes, and then I’m here.” He rubbed the back of his neck, shooting another glance at Steve.

“Well, it certainly sounds like Tesseract tech,” said Bruce.

“Problem is, without the hardware itself, it’s not going to be easy to figure out why it brought you here, of all places. I mean I _could_ , given enough time…” Tony paused, his mouth twisting in thought.

“You’re sure there’s nothing else you can remember? No mental hook of any kind?”

Bucky moved again, feet shuffling against the tiles. The soles of his boots squeaked softly. “I… a mental hook?”

“It’s possible that the Tesseract’s energy locked onto your thoughts somehow,” Bruce explained. “Made more likely by the–”

“The fact it slugged me on the forehead,” Bucky finished, and Bruce nodded. Bucky’s hand went to his head, automatically finding the spot it must have struck, although there was no mark to show for it. “Yeah, that makes sense. So I brought myself here, in a way.”

“Oh?”

“Well,” Bucky elaborated, “I was thinking about Steve, ’cause of the blue. Reminded me of his eyes.” He barked a short laugh. “It’s stupid, I know – but I hadn’t seen him for months, see.” He turned to Steve and punched his arm lightly. “Guess I missed you, pal.”

He glanced up and Steve managed a weak smile even as he felt a tinge of scarlet heat sweep upwards from his neck to his cheeks. Thankfully, Bucky continued swiftly: “And as for the future, I guess that’s gotta be a wish, don’t it?” He shrugged as he turned back to Bruce. “We all wanted the war to be over and done with.”

_You more than most_ , Steve thought, his brief flush of embarrassment instantly overwhelmed by bitter guilt.

“Are we done here?” he asked instead, glancing at Bruce, who spread his arms in a helpless gesture.

“I guess we are. There’s nothing more we can learn from keeping you here, Sergeant – we’ve barely found any trace of Tesseract energy around you, which is–”

“ _Wrong_ , is what it is,” Tony interrupted, staring hard at Bucky as though the answer was seared into his skin. “It makes no sense. Zero.” He stepped in close and tapped Bucky on the forehead before careening away to pull up JARVIS’s scan of Bucky’s cranium. “Flesh and blood. I don’t like it.”

“Tony had all his veins replaced with cables a long time ago.”

Tony whirled around, catching the tail end of Steve’s smirk. “You’re one to talk, with the–” He bit back what Steve would have bet was almost a crack at Bucky – _future_ Bucky, with the high-tech arm and joyless eyes.

Hydra’s perfect soldier, who refused to answer to anything Steve called him.

(Steve would not call him Yasha.)

“Actually,” said Bruce mildly, coming to the rescue, “I think by now your blood must be ten percent Scotch, surely?”

In the wake of Tony’s rather forced laugh, Bucky caught Steve’s eye and shot him a blinding grin. It was a genuine, overflowing, breathless kind of grin that Steve hadn’t seen since 1943, and it had an effect as somatic as any blow.

It took Steve a moment to realise that Bucky was addressing him.

“…still bathe and stuff in the future, right?”

“Huh?”

“Hey, punk. Where’s your head? I want to get cleaned up, if that’s something you guys still do.”

“Yeah.” The word came out stunted, mumbled, and Steve cleared his throat. Bucky was still wearing his uniform: the ratty olive undershirt and baggy pants. Steve hadn’t even registered it. Now, he cleared his throat. “Yeah, of course.”

“You can have Cap’s bathroom,” Tony said, not lifting his head from the colour-coded cranial scan he was studying. “Not like he ever uses it.”

Steve sighed. “I don’t live here, Tony.”

“No, because you _like_ being alone in your ivory tower.”

“I have my _own_ apartment – and are we really gonna talk about ivory towers? Remind me where we are, exactly?”

Tony flipped between two different views of Bucky’s torso before overlaying them with a casual flick of his fingers. “We,” he said, “are in a specifically-designed custom-built facility that not only serves as a touchpoint for the Avengers but also as the New York headquarters of Stark Industries. Questions?”

Steve grimaced his way through a moment of silence before Bucky broke it.

“I really hope you mean me, because I have about a hundred questions right now.”

Tony held up one hand. “Nope. Scram. This is a _working_ lab, and we have stuff to do.”

“He’s kind of correct,” Bruce said apologetically, from where he’d ensconced himself behind a glass-topped desk scattered with papers and a couple of empty tea mugs. “There are a couple of deadlines approaching and although I don’t technically work for the company, Pepper asked me to help out in a consulting capacity for a few weeks.”

“She gave me a lab buddy.” Tony picked up a small metallic object from a pile of similarly small metallic objects and held it up to one eye. “He’s only been here three days, but he’s doing great so far.”

Bruce stood abruptly. “I’m going to make some more tea. Tony, is that capacitor overheating _again_?”

Tony cursed and shot over to the other side of the room, where something had just begun fizzing erratically. Bruce gave Steve a pointed look and inclined his head towards the door; Steve took the hint.

In the corridor outside, Bucky turned to Steve. “Did he say Stark Industries?”

Steve nodded as they stepped into the lift and it began to rise. The lifts on the uppermost ten floors of the tower had no buttons or controls of any kind, and even after coming to terms with JARVIS’s omnipresence, Steve still found them a little unnerving.

“As in, _Howard_ Stark? Who we saw at the Expo? With that flying car idea?”

“I remember.” Steve left Bucky hanging for a second before he added, “Tony’s his son.”

Bucky absorbed this information thoughtfully. “I can see the likeness. But jeez, his poor ma.”

“This is our floor,” Steve said, more sharply than he intended.

No matter how many times he came to the Tower, its sheer luxuriance never failed to astound him. There was something almost intimidating in its scrupulous attention to details that would never have occurred to Steve himself: Pepper’s thoughtfulness in each finishing touch. And this floor – dubbed Steve’s own property by Tony, though it had never felt like home – had more technology shoehorned into it than he’d have thought possible. Even the windows were programmable.

Bucky wandered around in silence as Steve rooted around in a closet for some towels. Unlike the ostentatious mood lighting and pressure pads in the floor, they were simple and tasteful: good quality soft white cotton. Steve took a moment to breathe in their scent and made a mental note to thank Pepper for her foresight in stocking his floor with clean linen.

“What’s up?”

Steve jumped, clutching at the pile of towels and cracking his elbow on the closet doorframe. “What?”

Bucky surveyed him, wry eyes above crossed arms. “You only do that thing where you bury your head in a blanket when you’ve got something on your mind.”

“It’s a towel,” said Steve stupidly, and Bucky snorted.

“C’mon, what’s up? Do I gotta tackle you to get it out of you? Cause I’m telling you, pal, there might be a hundred pounds more of you but the army doesn’t half make you work for a living. I could still take you down any–”

“Why haven’t you asked?”

Bucky blinked. “Asked what?”

“Asked _anything!_ Jesus, Buck – besides asking the year and whether Coke still tastes the same, you haven’t asked me squat! What the hell d’you think I’m _doing_ here in the future? What d’you think _you’re_ doing here?”

Bucky had taken an instinctive step backwards and Steve hated himself for causing it. He took a slow breath and continued, gentler: “Why haven’t you once asked about yourself?”

“Because I’m not here.” Bucky’s voice sounded smaller than Steve had ever heard it.

“Wh…what?”

Bucky squared his shoulders. “Steve, I get it. If I’m not dreaming, then I’m dead, aren’t I? I die in that big warehouse, lyin’ flat on my back. That’s how it goes, right?”

All of the feeling left Steve’s body at once. Bucky, however, seemed to take this as confirmation that he was correct, because he gave a lopsided grin and hooked the towels out of Steve’s limp grasp. “Gonna need some new threads, too, if it’s not too much trouble.” With that, he disappeared into the bathroom.

Steve stood and stared at the shut door for a few seconds. Then he jolted into action and turned towards the closet once more. He found a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring fastening and a plain black tee, as well as some underwear. The shirt would be a little on the large side, but he hoped the pants would fit reasonably well until Bucky could get something better.

_Are you seriously worrying about Bucky’s **clothes**?_

Steve folded the neat little pile onto the table outside the bathroom door, chewing his lip and trying not to listen to his thoughts.

_What happens when he finds out he’s not dead? When he learns what **does** happen to him? When he meets–?_

Bucky, face to face with his future? With… with Yasha? Steve hesitated to think about it – but it was inevitable. If, for whatever convoluted reason, fate had contrived to deposit this Bucky in his path, it would be impossible to keep it a secret. People would find out. _Yasha_ would find out.

Steve sank onto the sofa, his head in his hands.

A few minutes later, the bathroom door opened and Bucky, clad in a towel, emerged. Steve passed him the clothes without a word. He waited until Bucky was dressed and towelling his hair before he spoke again.

“You’re not dead.”

Bucky froze, arm raised and eyes wide under the towel. “What?”

Steve’s tongue felt like rubber; he spoke around it, carefully. “I wish I could tell you otherwise, but I rescued you from Kreischberg – from the facility in Austria. You lived.”

“I lived?”

Steve nodded numbly.

“But you wish I were dead?”

“What? No, of course not! I just – I’m sorry, that was the wrong thing to say. You’re alive, Buck – I can’t stop being glad that you’re alive – but you’re not the same person.”

Bucky’s face creased in confusion. “I don’t understand. What’re you telling me, Steve?” He suddenly realised that his arm was still raised, and he yanked the towel from his head.

“I told you I was frozen for seventy years,” Steve said.

The towel had been twisting itself around Bucky’s fingers and now he pulled it taut. “Yeah.”

“Well, you weren’t.”

Realisation dawned on Bucky’s face. “Hold up – you’re telling me seventy years went by and now I’m some kind of hundred year-old grandfather, and you’re surprised I’m not the same person?”

Steve grimaced. “No, that’s not what I–”

But Bucky silenced him. “Please,” he said abruptly, and his eyes held a plea too. “Let’s drop it.”

And Steve did. Hating himself, hating Hydra, hating the past, hating all the anguish he knew lay in Bucky’s future. But hope springs eternal, and it crept into the corners of his mind without his consent. Perhaps he could spare Bucky that future. Perhaps there was some way to keep him here, keep him safe. After all, the past was done with, wasn’t it? There was no changing it from here.

“So,” said Bucky, having deposited his towel in the bathroom. “Howard Stark’s kid, huh? How’d you wind up meeting him?”

He was smiling and Steve found himself returning it. “Okay, Buck,” he began, settling back into the sofa as Bucky threw himself down beside him, “hang on to your hat. I’m gonna tell you the best damn story you ever heard.”

“Better than my Halloween ghost story of 1933?” Bucky asked, aghast – but Steve saw straight through the act.

“ _Way_ better than that,” he said confidently. “Was that the one with the–?”

“With the dead bodies coming alive, yeah.”

Steve shook his head, the unearthed memory like finding a long-lost artefact perfectly preserved in the sand. “God, I’d forgotten about that story. We’d just read _Frankenstein_ , hadn’t we? All that stuff about reanimating corpses…”

“Galvanism,” Bucky corrected. “Yeah, they really thought you could bring people back from the dead by electrocuting them.”

“Made a great ghost story, though.”

Bucky laughed. “Sure did.”

Eventually, as the room darkened around them and the lights flicked on automatically, Steve got around to telling Bucky about the Avengers Initiative. By the time he did, they’d both forgotten about his promise to make it a better yarn than the Great Ghost Story of 1933.

* * *

Steve woke up before his alarm the next day. He’d never had particular trouble with mornings, but recently they’d been a little… lacklustre. Avengers emergencies happened every so often, but never with any predictable frequency and thankfully not often enough to count as a full-time job. Which was why, despite Tony’s protestations, Steve had rented himself an apartment of his own, near enough to the Tower that they felt like neighbours but far enough away that Steve could breathe easy and enjoy the peace.

But today… today he actually checked the refrigerator rather than just mindlessly throwing a cereal bar in his bag. There was milk. Hm. Steve frowned to himself, trying to remember the last time he’d stayed overnight here. He gingerly removed the lid and sniffed, but it was fresh.

“JARVIS?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Does Tony keep my fridge stocked?”

“Miss Potts ensures that the refrigerators on floors designated in-use are always stocked with essentials.”

“What happens if I don’t use them?”

“They are periodically replenished with fresh produce.”

“No no, I mean to the old stuff. The stuff that’s not been used.”

“It is distributed to local soup kitchens before it spoils, Captain.”

Steve blinked. “Oh,” he said, deflating slightly. “Well, that’s good.” It was a relief that the food wasn’t just going to waste, but he also should have known better than to doubt Pepper’s organisational abilities.

_And her goodness_ , he thought, opening a cupboard and finding flour and salt next to a pull-out spice rack. It was ungracious of him to forget about her goodness. He piled his ingredients on the counter next to an overflowing bowl of fruit and stifled his brief, overwhelming urge to cry.

For a while, Steve measured and poured and mixed in silence. It was only once the sound of gentle sizzling had filled the room that he turned and saw Bucky leaning against the opposite doorframe, watching him.

“Morning,” Bucky said, and Steve accidentally folded a pancake in half, because how many times had they done this before?

“Oh,” he replied, staring blankly at the semicircle of pancake failure.

Bucky appeared at his side and elbowed him out of the way. “Klutz.” He took the spatula from Steve’s unresisting hand and prodded at the pan. “Nah, that one’s just not cut out to be a circle. Got any syrup?”

Steve nodded towards the pile of toppings on the counter. Then he suddenly managed to smile. “And this,” he said, picking up a jar.

Bucky squinted at the label. “What’s that?”

“It’s kind of a hazelnut and chocolate spread – trust me, Buck, you’re gonna love it.”

“More than syrup?” Bucky asked, raising an eyebrow.

 “I dunno, pal, maybe. It’s pretty good stuff. It might just convert you.”

Bucky still looked dubious, but as it transpired, Steve’s faith was proved correct. Through a mouthful of pancake, Bucky pointed at the microwave on the opposite counter and looked at Steve quizzically.

“It’s a microwave,” said Steve without elaboration, just to mess with him.

Bucky managed to pull a face without pausing his chewing, and Steve snorted. “It heats food up by bouncing waves of radiation around inside it. They make the molecules in the food vibrate, creating heat. Voila.” He speared a slice of banana on his fork as Bucky swallowed, frowning in thought.

“Like radio waves?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah, like those, but more powerful. The metal grille thing’s called a Faraday cage, and it keeps them localised.”

“Cool.” Bucky shovelled in another forkful of pancake before cocking his head and saying with a grin, “Hey, why d’you know all this, anyway?”

“Looked it up when I first woke up,” Steve replied.

Bucky regarded him for a few moments before lowering his fork. “Must’ve been tough.”

“What?”

“Y’know, waking up and not recognising stuff. Not knowing what even simple stuff did.”

Steve shrugged. “You’re going through the exact same thing right now.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, smiling, “but I got you explaining everything.”

* * *

 Their little bubble couldn’t last; Steve knew that. He did. But what was to stop him from enjoying Bucky’s company while he could? Surely the fact that he _knew_ it wouldn’t last was reason enough to savour it while it did?

And anyhow, who was to say it wouldn’t last? If his life so far had taught him one thing, it was that the universe was fickle and inexplicable. Who was to say that he couldn’t have this? Who was to say that Bucky couldn’t possibly stay here?

They’d finished washing up and were sitting at the table by the huge windows that looked out over the city, Steve’s laptop beside them with a new tab opened for every question Steve hadn’t been able to answer from memory. Bucky had wanted to go out initially, but Steve had managed to distract him with the laptop and the wonders of the internet. More than one organisation were likely still looking for the Winter Soldier, and Steve was willing to bet they’d be happy enough to take a man with his face as a substitute, even without the Soldier’s metal arm.

So they were talking, and laughing, and reminiscing, and flitting around the city on Google Maps – something with which Bucky was instantly enamoured – and Steve’s cheeks were actually beginning to ache from smiling so hard.

And then the door opened and Yasha stalked in.

Steve was on his feet instantly, one hand out towards each of them. The Bucky at his side rose more slowly, his gaze fixed on the newcomer.

When Steve was seventeen, he lay in bed for eight weeks with a whooping cough that developed into a solid case of pneumonia. Once he was well enough to stand, he hauled himself on unsteady legs to the communal bathroom at the end of the hall and clutched the rolled steel edge of the sink with both hands, leaning forwards. His knuckles were bluish as he gripped, and he squinted at the unfamiliar face in the mirror.

He looked like he was dying. No, he looked like he’d already _died_ , a few days past. His hair was flat and matted to his head, lifeless after weeks unwashed. His face was thin and clammy, and his skin had an unhealthy sheen. Through bleary sight, he could just about tell that he’d contracted pinkeye somewhere along the line: his eyes were puffy and half-stuck together with yellowish buildup. This wasn’t Steve Rogers. This was some sort of joke, surely. A costume from a bygone Halloween, perhaps, or the result of a Universal horror film in grainy black and white, coupled with one too many beers.

Steve remembered staring, revulsion churning in the empty pit of his stomach. It was a strange, dehumanising feeling, seeing an unrecognisable monstrosity where his face should have been. He didn’t feel sorry for himself. Instead there was just a bizarre, detached indifference, a kind of mental nose-wrinkle – a faintly disgusted _What **is** that thing?_ as though he’d stumbled across a dead animal on the sidewalk. Objectively he knew what he was looking at, but there was no sense of self there. The closest thing to selfhood left was a skittish, distant fear: _Is this me? Is this what I am now?_

That was how Bucky was looking at Yasha – at _himself_ – now.

 

[Illustration by [maichan](http://maichan-art.tumblr.com).]

Steve glanced between them. Briefly, he thought he saw something akin to fear flicker over Yasha’s face, but it vanished before he could be sure. So he remained in place, arms still raised, tongue-tied.

“Huh.” Yasha took two steps forwards, commanding the room. He surveyed Bucky with cold deliberation, cocking his head like a panther catching sight of its prey.

“Oh, Steve,” he breathed, and for an instant Steve thought he’d floored him.

“It’s okay, it’s–”

Yasha laughed, harsh and sudden. “You must be so _pleased_.”

“What?” Steve blinked, his vague impression of Yasha needing reassurance dissipating.

“How’d you do it? Time travel? Mail order? Cloning? They can do that now. Fuck, did you get DNA from me while I wasn’t looking?” Yasha made a show of peering over his right shoulder as though a scientist was hovering there with a swab and a sample vial.

Notwithstanding the fact that this was the most expressive Yasha had been around Steve since he’d arrived, his words dripped spite. Steve focused on that; anger was easy. He could process anger. What he struggled with was the idea that Yasha habitually chose not to express himself while Steve was around.

(He’d expected a recovery period; he wasn’t stupid. He’d just wanted to be a part of it.)

“That first one.”

Steve spun round. _Bucky_. Bucky here, alive, stepping forward to echo Yasha’s pose. Two soldiers sizing each other up across a gulf of seventy years.

“What?” Yasha scowled.

Bucky’s eyes were blazing but he kept his tone measuredly pleasant. “You gonna ask a question, you best pay attention to the answer, pal.”

Steve didn’t look to see Yasha’s reaction. He moved instinctively, putting the breadth of his body between them, shielding Bucky. “Don’t,” he said, addressing them both but with his eyes on Yasha, who was flexing his metal fingers. “Please.”

Their eyes met and Steve felt that familiar jolt he was learning to tamp down. “Please,” he repeated, and forced himself not to look away.

Yasha said something fierce in a language Steve didn’t recognise, but he relaxed just enough for Steve to breathe freely again. He lowered his arms and stepped back to see Bucky standing his ground, pale but unbowed.

There was a squeak of rubber sole against the tiles as Yasha turned on his heel. He paused for a moment and addressed Bucky: “Just – stay out of my way till you leave.”

Bucky snorted. “Not a problem, wise guy.”

Yasha was already on his way to the door. He didn’t spare Steve another glance, and the door closed with a sharp click.

Bucky blew out his breath. “Jesus. Nice fella.”

Silence from Steve.

“So, uh,” Bucky continued, swallowing. “What d’you want to do with the rest of the day, huh?”

But Steve knew that tone. Bucky was deflecting.

“Buck,” he began – carefully, slowly. “That, um. That can’t have been easy for you.”

“Nah, it’s fine.” Bucky shot him a bright, fake smile. “Wanna get some dinner? I mean, if greasy spoons are still a thing.”

“He’s not – I mean he doesn’t, uh – he isn’t that bad.”

“Not that bad?” Bucky repeated incredulously. “He just treated you like somethin’ on the bottom of his shoe, Steve.”

“Yeah but he’s – you’ve–”

“It’s okay, Steve. I don’t want to know.”

Steve blinked. “What?”

Bucky gave him a look that was at once both sad and kind; the kind of look that made Steve want to hold him close, no matter how that might betray him. “I mean it. I don’t want to know. Whatever happened to him – to _me_ – turned us into him. I can see what it did, okay? So don’t tell me.”

“Right,” said Steve blankly. “Of course, okay. Yeah.” His voice sounded dry, reedy, and all at once he wanted to hit something.

There was a sudden warmth at his side as Bucky slung an arm around his shoulder. “Hey, don’t look so blue,” he began, and then laughed at the awkwardness of their position. “Jeez, don’t think I realised how huge you’ve gotten.”

Steve just dropped his forehead onto Bucky’s shoulder. It meant he was spared the indignity of speaking, which was a benefit as Bucky brought his arm down to rub gently up and down Steve’s back, and at that point he couldn’t have spoken if he tried.

* * *

After that, the bubble was no more. Natasha, back from Europe for a brief night’s stay in the Tower before jetting out on another, more covert operation, appeared out of nowhere the day after and cornered Steve. Bucky was down in the lab once more, an arrangement that benefitted everyone – Steve was relieved he wasn’t out on New York’s streets; Bruce wanted to discreetly monitor his physical presence over longer periods of time; Tony was just happy to have someone to show off to who was genuinely fascinated by the contents of his laboratory. Meanwhile, Bucky was content to endure the occasional swab or scan if it meant he could spend long hours asking questions about the cutting edge of twenty-first century scientific developments.

The downside was that Natasha easily collared Steve on his own.

“Interesting few days, Rogers?”

Steve nodded, wary. “They’ve been… interesting, yeah.”

“And now tell me what you’re really thinking.”

He sagged a little. “I’m, uh – I’m,” –he waved his arm vaguely– “fluctuating.”

Natasha’s smile was a little sad. “Mhm?” she prompted.

“It’s like… I’m happy he’s here, and it’s – it’s incredible being able to _talk_ to him again, because, well…”

“Yasha,” Natasha nodded in sympathy, though Steve couldn’t help a sharp little thought: Natasha didn’t _really_ know. Yasha spoke to her – in Russian, mostly, and sometimes in other languages, rarely English – whereas he largely ignored Steve. Their communications were short and to the point. They came together like two spinning discs, sparks flying.

“They’ve met, Nat. They were actually in the same room together – I’m not even sure how that works.”

“I know,” Natasha said, and Steve felt it again, that little spike of envy: _so he’ll speak to **you**_. Yasha must have confided in her. “Have the lab rats found a way to send him back yet?”

Her bluntness brought Steve up short. “Back? Why? Are they trying to–?”

“Yes.” Natasha stopped walking.

“No. He can stay. We can work something out.”

“Of course he’s going back, Steve,” Natasha sighed, as though he was being deliberately obtuse. “You know his future. You know what he _does_. You’re going to have to say goodbye sometime.”

Steve was shaking his head automatically, his body quivering. The memory of biting wind whipping away wasted tears on a train in the mountains, many years ago. “No. I can–”

“This is not an argument, Steve. You know what has to happen.”

“ _I won’t lose him again!_ ”

“Then don’t keep him here,” Natasha retorted, unfazed, looking calmly into Steve’s wild-eyed face. “You found him alive in Kreischberg, so he has to be there. Somehow, you know he has to get back there.”

Steve ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, angrily pushing away the emotion. “I can’t send him back to that. To what’s coming in his future.”

“It’s happened, Steve. He’s endured it. Think about yourself for a second.”

Himself? Steve didn’t matter; nothing mattered but snatching this young, laughing Bucky from the clutches of Zola and the others who would slowly strip him of every laugh, every grin, every last piece of humanity. They couldn’t have him. Not again. Not now Steve knew the full extent of their brutality.“What about me?”

“Think of how many lives you’ve saved. What kind of Captain America would you have turned out to be if you’d found your best friend’s body on a slab?”

Steve opened his mouth to argue, but he couldn’t. He was back in the facility at Kreischberg, looking down at the men who would become like brothers to him, and they were total strangers, staring at him with disbelief and suspicion. He couldn’t lie to himself. Without Bucky, there would have been no Howling Commandos. There would just have been Captain America… once great, now a forgotten mascot, nothing but a hollow image to plaster onto posters and advertisements, while the men of the 107th – those brave, brave men – went out and did their duty as heroes. Captain America, calling citizens to their deaths with a grin as vacant as a skull’s.

Natasha touched his forearm. “I’m sorry, Steve,” she said. There was a low tenderness in her voice that Steve knew was shown to precious few people, and he nodded, swallowing down the lump in his throat and trying to convey his respect for her with eyes alone.

She’d made her point, and she retreated back into her polished SHIELD professionalism. “I have to go get some sleep before tomorrow. Stay in touch, okay?”

And she left, striding back down the corridor, silent save for a faint rustle of material that Steve only just picked up even with the benefit of supersoldier hearing.

He waited a few moments before heading back to his floor, abandoning his plan to check on Bucky in the lab. Bucky would make his own way back before long, no doubt, and there was no sense in worrying him needlessly by showing up with freshly reddened eyes and a face full of sorrow.

“Hey, JARVIS?” he said in the elevator on the way back up.

“Yes, Captain?”

“Would you let Bucky know where I am, if he asks?”

“Of course.”

It was a courtesy more than anything else – inasmuch as it was possible to be courteous to an AI – but Steve was coming to terms with the brief conversations he had with JARVIS. It reminded him of life with the Howlies – when he used to check in with the soldier on first watch, whoever it was, whom he was relieving after a couple of stolen hours of sleep. He knew that, had anything been amiss, they would have let him know right away, but there was a familiar, reassuring ritual about the question and the answer. Call and response, the captain to his men.

Steve knew someone was there the moment he stepped out of the elevator.

“Buck?” he said hopefully, as a dark figure rose from the couch.

Yasha laughed, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “Sorry to disappoint.” He straightened up as the elevator doors slid shut.

“That’s not what I meant,” Steve protested automatically, but his heart wasn’t in it. In truth, having Bucky around had made dealing with Yasha even more difficult than usual. It was impossible not to compare the two at every turn.

“Did you want something?” he said instead, noting how Yasha watched his movements as he unlaced his boots and lined them up by the wall.

A few moments of nothing. Steve allowed himself a small, borderline melodramatic sigh. “All right, pal, I’m going to bed, so if you–”

“I’m not your pal,” Yasha spat, and it hurt just as much as it had the first time he’d said it. _I’m not your pal. I’m not your Bucky. Don’t speak to me. Don’t touch me. I am Yasha_.

Steve was tired and heartsore and not in the mood for an argument, but Jesus, if he was stung, he sure as hell was going to sting back. So he waved a hand and said, “Whatever,” in a vague tone, almost bored, taking two steps towards his bedroom.

Two steps, because that’s all he got before Yasha vaulted the couch and blocked his path, closer than they’d been in months, their faces mere inches from each other. Two steps and Steve knew he couldn’t face this confrontation now, when all he could do was stare and suppress the unwanted memory of a time when the mouth in front of him held a softer shape.

He let the act drop. “I’m going to bed,” he repeated, quieter this time.

“What are you going to do with him?”

Steve was tempted to say _With who?_ just to be contrary, but he looked at Yasha’s narrowed eyes and his resolve crumbled. Whatever strength he’d summoned to fight the Soldier in DC had drowned in the Potomac. “I dunno, Buck, I just want to sleep–”

“Don’t call me that,” Yasha snarled, and Steve realised his error too late. “Is that what you call him? – Your Bucky, your Buck, your pal who tucks you up in winter and follows you into war–”

“Enough!” Steve shouted, fatigue overtaken by anger. “You don’t want anything to do with either of us, fine, so be it – but don’t you _dare_ insult him like that. He made his own choices.”

“Wrong choices.” Yasha showed no signs of stepping away. “ _Wrong_ choices, _pathetic_ choices. They offered him a way out – honourable discharge, a ticket out of hell – and he fucking turned them down, just for the chance to trail around after you. You wanna do him a favour? Tell him to take the offer. Tell him to go home.”

Steve was shaking. “That’s not true.”

Yasha shrugged. “Got no reason to make this shit up.”

“Since when d’you need a reason?” Steve spat back, months of internalised fury released with razor-sharp precision. “All you do right now is skulk around here making my life hell – what exactly do you _want_ from me?”

“ _I want you to fucking see me!_ ” Yasha hissed, which made no sense at all, given their current proximity. Steve blinked, briefly derailed by the ridiculousness of that retort.

“Well, I’m seeing you now,” he said, sarcasm tainting the words. “Tell me what I’m supposed to be looking for, why don’t you.”

Yasha grabbed the neckline of Steve’s shirt and hauled him in so close that Steve’s heart stuttered. Contorted with frustration, Yasha’s face was still arresting. His eyes were still a startling blue-gray. And there was still something about the angles of his cheekbones that made Steve’s poor maligned brain cry out _Bucky_ as though it would mean a damn thing.

“I–” he breathed, but Yasha’s face changed and for an instant Steve saw a flash of Bucky that knocked him so off-balance that he barely registered Yasha’s other hand gripping his shoulder before they collided.

The world darkened. Yasha was still pushing forwards, the pressure of his mouth turning to a nip of pain as he caught Steve’s lower lip between his teeth. Steve opened to let him in instinctively, unquestioningly, his hands finding their way to Bucky’s waist. There was a ripple of movement as Bucky brought their chests flush, tilting his head and licking into Steve’s willing mouth. Steve groaned and dragged his fingers up Bucky’s spine to bury them in his hair –long hair, God, that was different, but the feel of it, and the scratch of Bucky’s chin against his skin, and the coolness of a metallic palm on his neck, were deliciously new.

Steve was delirious, clutching Bucky close, and he was probably running his mouth too, who knew what he was saying – and then it was all over.

“Liar.”

“Wh-what?” Steve was still breathless, still stunned, gaze fixed on Bucky’s – on Yasha’s reddened lips.

“Fucking liar.” The words had a veneer of calm, but there was something else underneath: something Steve, to his surprise, didn’t think was the familiar anger. Was Yasha… did Yasha _regret_ this?

“I don’t–”

Yasha’s face had cordoned itself off again, impassive as a stone lion, and Steve was at a loss to know what to do.

JARVIS beeped and Tony’s voice suddenly emanated from the loudspeaker, shattering the moment.

“Cap? Do us a favour and get down here, pronto.”

Steve gave Yasha a last look of desperation and gestured towards the elevator, whose doors had just opened.

“I gotta–” he began, and then abandoned the attempt, knowing that if Yasha’s expression was this impassive, he’d do as much good talking to the wall – probably more, since the walls were interactive here more often than not. He dashed towards the elevator. “Talk later,” he said firmly, eyes on Yasha as the doors shut.

Yasha silently watched him leave.

* * *

“What’s wrong?”

Tony was three feet up a stepladder, pulling a bunch of wires out of what looked like a ceiling-mounted laser, a glowing schematic on a screen at his elbow. He was uncharacteristically sombre and it was grating on Steve’s nerves. He shifted on the balls of his feet, eyeing the monitors.

“Tony, I swear to God, if you don’t tell me what’s going on–”

“Something’s changed,” interrupted Bruce tersely, and Steve whirled to watch him descend the stairs at the far end of the room. “We said we were only getting trace Tesseract energy around Bucky, and we were – but the way we were reading that was inaccurate. It wasn’t the _same_ energy.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that the energy isn’t a constant,” Bruce explained. “It’s been draining.”

Steve’s blood ran cold. “What happens when it runs out?”

Bruce shook his head helplessly and turned his attention back to a smallish dark box with a blinking blue LED.

“Bruce. Tony? Talk to me. You can stop it, right? You can slow it down?” Even Steve could hear the reedy fear in his voice.

Tony twisted himself around on the stepladder and met his gaze. “Imagine a piece of Tesseract technology,” he said, “all spooky and shiny and full of glowy blue goodness. That thing smacks him right between the eyes and BAM – massive energy transfer. I’m simplifying here for the sake of argument, but in layman’s terms, that’s what happened. So the Buckster finds himself with his old pal Steve, seventy years in the future–”

“Get to the point, Tony,” Steve warned.

Perhaps Tony actually registered Steve’s thinning patience, because he sped up his explanation. “Okay, okay – so Bucky’s got a buttload of residual Tesseract energy inside him, and that stuff is… _different_ than our stuff.”

“We don’t know that much about it,” Bruce put in. “It’s part of the reason we were so keen to scan Bucky in the first place. Tesseract energy spreads – a little like electricity tries to ground itself – although it conducts through living organisms.”

Steve couldn’t move. His mind was numbly cataloguing the ways he’d touched Bucky over the past forty-eight hours. One-armed hugs, casually-bumped shoulders, laughing hair tugs. Thoughtless gestures, each one loosening Bucky’s tether to the world.

And Bucky had been doing the same thing, hadn’t he? At Steve’s encouragement, Bucky had been living and interacting with the future, and the energy that was keeping him here was gradually losing the power to do so.

With difficulty, Steve swallowed down the panic rising in his throat. “Can you do anything about it?” he asked. “Insulate it somehow?”

He’d hardly dared ask the question, and the pity in Bruce’s eyes told him how dire the situation was.

“We’re trying,” Bruce said, a moment too late for reassurance. “It’s not hopeless, okay? We’re trying.”

“Okay,” Steve repeated. “Okay.” He groped blindly for the edge of the table; the brushed metal was cool against his fingertips and it grounded him. He took a few deep breaths. If he fell apart now, he’d be of no use to Bucky.

Tony pulled out a single wire from the bundle balanced on the stepladder’s platform and wiggled it into the black casing in the ceiling. He took a screwdriver from between his teeth and began tightening something to hold the wire in place. “We told him to avoid people for a while, but I guess that’s not gonna be a problem.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“JARVIS?” Tony said, before wedging the screwdriver behind one ear. “Know where the good sergeant is now?”

“Sergeant Barnes is on the roof, sir, but I believe he would appreciate some space and privacy for the time being.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thou–”

“Could you ask him if I can come up?” Steve said, awkwardly addressing the ceiling.

There were a few moments of silence, during which Tony shrugged and refocused his attention on his work and Steve fought to stop himself pacing. His gaze darted around the room, refusing to alight.

“I do not believe your presence would be unwelcome, Captain.”

Steve had no time to wonder what that response meant Bucky had actually _said_ , because he was already moving. He remembered himself for long enough to call out a quick thank you to JARVIS, which in turn led to an indignant “Hey, JARVIS is _my_ AI, thank _me_!” from Tony; Steve caught the tail end of it before he burst out of the lab.

JARVIS was notably unobtrusive in the elevator. Even the usual instrumental music had been silenced, and for that Steve was thankful.

It was a warm evening out. Clouds blanketed the horizon in swathes of purple and lilac, the sinking sun an indistinct yet blindingly bright streak of white to the west, outlined in brilliant fuchsia. A single iridescent vapour trail split the sky in two. The air was muggy and heavy: the kind of air that would have closed up Steve’s struggling, asthmatic lungs, once upon a time. Now, his breath caught for a different reason.

Bucky was sitting on the edge of the rooftop, one foot resting on the parapet and his arms folded tightly around his upright knee. Just a narrow, huddled silhouette staring out at the cityscape, and at the sight of him, Steve was forcibly reminded of how tiny he’d felt when he first woke up in a New York he no longer recognised. Tiny, adrift, and very, very alone.

“Hey, Buck.”

Bucky didn’t move as Steve approached him. Behind them, the elevator doors hummed shut and there was a gentle whir as it descended. Steve sat down and for once there was no urge to touch Bucky. No impulse to reach out in wordless compassion. That longing had been strangled back in the lab, and now there was just this yawning sadness.

“They told you, then,” Bucky mumbled into the crook of his arm.

“Yeah,” Steve said. Dully, he realised that Bucky had changed into his old army uniform – what was left of it, anyway. The ratty shirt hung from one hunched shoulder and seeing it made something crack inside Steve’s chest. “Buck, you’re not–”

“Shut up, Steve.” At last, Bucky tore his eyes away from the view and rounded on Steve. “You can’t fix this.”

“But I – I have friends who can, Tony and Bruce are working on it right now – they think they can make something to insulate the Tesseract energy. They’re not too late, Buck – it’s not too late, I promise–” This time Steve cut himself off, the words dying in his throat as Bucky’s eyes met his. Of all Steve had expected to find there, this clear resignation floored him.

“It _is_ too late.” Bucky held up his hands, turning them one way then another before dropping them to the wall. “I can feel it. Half of me’s back there already.”

“You can’t go.” His voice broke. Never had it been so difficult to not take Bucky’s hand.

Bucky smiled at him gently. “Believe me, pal, I don’t want to.” He patted Steve’s thigh, but Steve jerked away. Every touch was another lost moment. Desperation rose like bile in his chest. His knuckles were pale against the stone parapet, fingernails digging into the mortar.

“But we’ve not had enough _time_ ,” Steve said, vehement. “It’s not _fair_ –”

But he sounded like a petulant child and he knew it. He lowered his gaze and press his lips together, forcing silence.

“Time,” said Bucky dreamily – and then more forceful, “Good point. Got no time. I saw you, y’know.” He only held off for a beat before adding, “Making out with – with Yasha.”

Steve’s head snapped up. “What? When?”

Bucky gave him a sardonic look. “Steve, where d’you think’s the first place I came, when they told me I’m not gonna be here much longer, huh?”

“Oh no.” Steve’s blood ran cold. He hadn’t heard the elevator doors open and close – of course he hadn’t, the tower could have collapsed around them and he probably wouldn’t have noticed – and Bucky must have seen enough, at least. “No, I can explain–”

“I don’t mind, Steve.” Bucky’s breath was coming shorter now. Words required more effort. “Wanted to tell you that, at least.”

But something was happening within Steve’s clouded mind. Connections were being formed – something Bucky’d said about Steve’s eyes, something Yasha said about the chance to be with Steve – and suddenly something slotted into place.

“It’s you,” Steve blurted. “It’s not just Bu– Yasha. Bucky, you gotta know.” His voice was wrecked but he ploughed onwards. “You gotta _know_ ,” he repeated.

But Bucky’s eyes were unfocused and glassy, and his breathing had quickened. His lips moved, half-formed whispers barely slipping between his teeth, and for a moment Steve’s heart stopped. This wasn’t it. This couldn’t be how it ended.

And then Bucky came back to himself with a jolt, wild-eyed and gasping. “Steve?”

“I’m here – Bucky, I’m here, I love you, remember that, God, Bucky, _please_ –”

Bucky blinked up at him, openmouthed, and Steve froze before Bucky’s face broke into a dazzling, incongruous grin.

“You always feel that way?”

Something akin to a sob battled to be heard but Steve swallowed it down and nodded instead. Bucky was smiling. He’d fantasised pouring out his heart a thousand times to a thousand different reactions, but he’d never expected Bucky to smile.

Bucky squinted at him. “Huh. Could’ve said.”

“You asshole, I–” But Bucky was laughing at him now and Steve couldn’t find it in himself to finish that sentence, wherever it had been going. He pressed his lips together and shook his head mutely, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. “Don’t tell him – me, when you’re back. Please.”

“What? Why not? I got years to make up for, pal–” Bucky faltered.

“Because I can’t – I think it’d – don’t. Please. Just know that he does. That I _do_. Will you hold onto that?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, his grin fading. “Yeah, I – Barnes, James Buchanan – shit–” He shook his head roughly, hands at his temples. “…three-two-five-five-seven-oh – fuck, Steve, I…”

His words slurred and Steve leaned towards him as Bucky ran his mouth, letting his serial number, name, rank wash over them both. Steve talked, too, soft platitudes that fell like rain: “It’s okay, Buck, it’ll be okay, you open your eyes and I’ll be there, okay?” all the while feeling like he was putting a bullet between his best friend’s eyes. Dimly, he realised that Bucky’s outline was swimming in and out of view in the dying light. He scrubbed at his eyes, but it wasn’t the tears.

“Steve,” Bucky gasped, looking straight at him so intently that for an instant Steve wanted to believe he’d found some way to beat this. But Bucky was obviously fighting to stay for as long as possible now; every second was a struggle. His gaze slid over Steve, his eyelids drooping, but he dragged in another lungful of air and said desperately: “I wanted to kiss you.”

So Steve did.

It was a split-second decision, but Steve kissed him, both of them aware of the consequences. Bucky faded faster the longer they were in contact, but his eyes held such a pure request and Steve wanted to answer it so badly. He kissed him simple and sweet, lips closed, eyes open.

It was like kissing a ghost. Bucky sighed into it, very gently, and was gone. There was a dull thud as Steve’s palms hit empty stone, and Steve curled in on himself.

* * *

The clouds had cleared by the time Steve felt a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s cold,” Yasha said.

Steve straightened up. His back ached from so long hunched over, and he felt dry and wrung out, like forgotten laundry. Yasha was right.

“Has he gone?” Yasha asked, and Steve nodded, blindly staring at nothing.

There was a rustle of fabric as Yasha settled down beside him. Steve turned red eyes on him and Yasha said, “I’m not him.”

“I–” Steve began, then had to swallow to prevent his voice cracking. He cleared his throat. “I know. Yasha. I know.”

It was the first time he’d used the name, and Yasha inclined his head at the concession. They sat in silence for a few moments.

“Do you know,” Yasha said thoughtfully, “why it meant so much – Natalia giving me the name?” He didn’t give Steve a chance to respond. “It meant I… could be a person again. Could have a _chance_ to be a person again. That’s why I held onto it. Why I hold onto it still.”

Steve sniffed and wiped his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “For trying to – for calling you – well, for not listening. I should’ve realised you’re not him.”

“I’m not,” Yasha replied. “But I contain him.”

Steve blinked, and Yasha shrugged. It was such a _Bucky_ gesture that it caught Steve off-guard.

“I mean, kinda.” Yasha cocked his head and met Steve’s wide eyes. Slang sounded unfamiliar from him, but Steve heard the careful _kinda_ and knew he was trying. “I’m just – what I’m trying to say is I shouldn’t. Be like I’m being. To you.”

“Is this you trying to apologise?”

Yasha made a sound that could passably have been laughter. “ _Mozhetbyt_ ,” he said, but it was softer than his usual Russian outbursts and Steve hazarded a tentative smile in response before turning his gaze to the horizon.

“Did you talk to him?” he asked.

Slowly, Yasha nodded.

“Can I know what he said?”

Yasha considered. “You don’t need to,” he said after a few moments.

“Why’s that?”

Another pause, and then Steve felt cold metal fingers threading between his own where they rested on the stone parapet. The night sky was a smooth unbroken indigo and the city spread out below them, vibrant and alive and bright.

“Because I’ll show you,” Yasha said, and it was a promise he would keep as they sat through the night to watch the sun rise.

**Author's Note:**

> I might write something post-Endgame at some point (and apologies if you were hoping this was it). I haven't had that many Strong Feelings about fictional characters since CA:TWS.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Out of Time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19221037) by [sallysparrow017](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallysparrow017/pseuds/sallysparrow017)




End file.
